The Rise of the Wolf

Chapter 4

Beatrice

I've been driving for hours now, the hum of my tires on the road settling into a rhythm that feels almost soothing. The air is crisp, carrying that clean, woodsy scent that only comes with altitude. As I climb higher, the mountains rise around me, towering and quiet, their peaks brushing against a sky that feels impossibly vast. The road winds through dense forest, trees leaning in like old friends murmuring secrets. Sunlight filters through in patches, catching on passing windshields and scattering like shards of glass.

And then, suddenly, the view opens up. A lake stretches below, its surface gleaming like polished silver. The mountains mirror themselves in the water, turning the whole scene into something endless. Tiny towns dot the shoreline, nestled against the green like they've always belonged there. It stirs something in me—a deep, familiar ache, though I can't quite name it. A memory? A longing? I exhale, gripping the wheel a little tighter, reminding myself not to get lost in nostalgia.

My destination is Stoney Falls, a small town that, until recently, barely registered on the map. Now, investors are circling, eager to transform it into another picturesque retreat for people who want to escape their busy lives without sacrificing comfort. I've seen it before. I've built it before. My job is to make sure everything is just right as we near completion, to check the details, to ensure nothing is overlooked. As the assigned project manager for this stage of the project, it's my responsibility to oversee the final stages of construction, ensuring that the interior work aligns with the hotel chain's carefully curated plan. That means making sure the designer, architect, and construction company work within the timeline, staying on track without deviating from the vision. I am the one who keeps the moving parts in sync, smoothing out conflicts before they escalate, making sure no corners are cut and that the grand opening happens exactly as scheduled.

I should be focused on logistics, timelines, the ever-present pressure of an impending launch. But instead, I find myself caught in the quiet power of these mountains, the way the water below blurs the line between earth and sky, the sharp scent of pine that lingers in the wind.The mountains don't care about deadlines.

I take a sip of my coffee—cold now, bitter—and set the cup down. Two more hours.

Two more hours until I step onto that construction site, where I'll once again have to prove myself. The men in steel-toed boots will size me up, deciding—sometimes openly, sometimes with polite condescension—whether I belong there. I know the script. I've played this role before.

If I were a surgeon or a firefighter, my dedication would be praised. Apparently, dedication to one's job—especially for women—isn't appreciated unless it benefits others. Like the cashier at the grocery store who tells you that you gave her a fifty instead of a hundred, so the rest is yours. Hypocrites!

People are quick to label me a chronic workaholic, overly ambitious, cold, and plenty of other things. I guess I just don't fit the general profile. I know I shouldn't care, nor should I be concerned about how the local contractor crew perceives me. Yet, here I am, realizing I do care, and it never stops being exhausting.

I press my foot a little harder on the gas, watching as the lake disappears behind a curve in the road, swallowed by thick clusters of trees. I should call my mother. It's been a few days. She'd want to know I'm safe. She never says it outright, but I know.

She's always been careful not to burden me with her feelings, as if she spent so many years carrying the weight alone that she forgot how to share it. I learned that from her.

I was six when my father left. There was no slammed door, no final argument. Just an absence where he used to be. I remember sitting by the window that night, watching headlights cut through the dark, wondering if one of them would be his.

But they never were.

My mother didn't cry, at least not in front of me. She just kept going. She worked long shifts at the hospital, came home exhausted but still sat at the kitchen table, helping me with schoolwork, listening to my endless questions about the world. She made it look effortless. But I knew better.

I saw the unpaid bills tucked under the fruit bowl, the way she hesitated before swiping her card at the grocery store. I noticed how her hands shook when she thought I wasn't looking. That's when I learned what survival looked like. No safety net, no Plan B—just the two of us, pushing forward.

But my mother never let our world feel small. Our apartment was modest, a tiny two-bedroom in a worn-out building, but inside, she made it beautiful. She had a way of turning ordinary spaces into something special, something warm. She taught me that beauty wasn't about wealth—it was about intention.

The walls were always changing, painted in soft hues she mixed herself. She'd sew curtains from fabric scraps she found on sale, turning them into something that looked like they belonged in a magazine. Our couch was secondhand, but she covered it with cushions she embroidered by hand, each stitch carefully placed. I remember tracing the patterns with my fingers, fascinated by the swirls and shapes, the way colors played together.

She showed me how texture and light could transform a space, how even a cheap lamp, placed just right, could make a room feel inviting. She let me pick out fabrics, teaching me how patterns could either clash or harmonize, how a space could tell a story with the right touches. It wasn't just decorating—it was creating a feeling, a place that felt safe, even when the world outside wasn't.

That was when I fell in love with the idea of creating spaces that made people feel at home.

I think that's why I do what I do now. Hotels, at their core, are just temporary homes. They're places where people pause, rest, regroup before moving on. I wanted to be part of that—to create places that offer comfort, even if only for a night.

People think working in hospitality is all about luxury, about grandeur. But for me, it's about something much simpler. It's about making sure that no matter where someone is in the world, they can step into a space and feel like they belong there. Just like my mother did for us, with nothing but patience, creativity, and love.

The road winds upward, the trees thinning to reveal another sweeping view. The lake emerges again, stretching toward the horizon like a fallen piece of sky. I pull over at a small gravel turnout and step out, stretching my legs.

The air is cool against my skin, filled with the scent of damp earth and pine.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring out at the water. It's so still. The kind of stillness that makes time feel irrelevant, like the world has paused just for a breath.

I close my eyes, letting the silence settle around me.

If my father had stayed, would I be different? Softer? Less determined? Would I have grown up believing that someone would always be there to catch me if I fell? It doesn't matter.

I open my eyes, take one last look at the view, and get back into the car. The world keeps turning. And so do I.

As I merge back onto the road, my phone buzzes on the passenger seat. I glance at the screen—my mother. A strange sense of relief washes over me, but I let it go to voicemail. I'll call her later, when I have more to say. When I can listen without feeling like I need to fix something.

The last stretch of the drive feels longer than it should. The sun is dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the asphalt. My shoulders are tense. I roll them back, trying to shake off the weight that always seems to settle there before I walk onto a site.

By the time I reach Stoney Falls, dusk is creeping in. The town looks different than in the photos I've seen —cleaner, more polished, like it's already shedding its old skin to make room for something new. I pull into the gravel lot near the project headquarters and cut the engine.

For a moment, I just sit there, listening to the quiet tick of the cooling engine. Then, with a deep breath, I grab my bag and step out.

It's time to get to work.